


skin of fire and gold

by Anonymous



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: A Leitner Made Them Do It (The Magnus Archives), Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Dubious Consent, Hand Jobs, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex-Neutral Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sexy Leitner Week (The Magnus Archives)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:41:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28904307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Over the next few days, invisible fingers and hands brush over Jon’s skin. His eyes keep drifting to the locked drawer of his desk, where the gold-leather book still sits, and he wonders if this is it. If this is what the Leitner has done to him.All things considered, it’s relatively benign, he thinks.And so he turns his attention away from the book, continues to record statements, and tries to pretend like he doesn’t enjoy the soft feeling of fingers through his hair or against the knuckles of his hands or across the sensitive skin of his palms.It’s almost nice.Until it isn’t.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker
Comments: 5
Kudos: 140
Collections: Anonymous





	skin of fire and gold

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt 'exchange' for sexy Leitner week! The Leitner in this fic connects the reader with the first person who touches them after they’ve begun reading, establishing a physical connection between them so they can each feel when the other person is touched (by someone else or by themselves).
> 
> Loosely based off the pre-made prompt, "makes one part of the reader's anatomy extra sensitive — hands, throat, etc."
> 
> Content warnings in end notes that expand upon the tags (specifically the consent ones)

In retrospect, Jon probably should have realized that the weighty golden leather tome sandwiched between the other glossy-backed books he’d retrieved from the library was a Leitner. It was out of place in the pile and slightly warm in his hands when he picked it up absently from the corner of his desk, taking a sip of long-cold tea as he flipped it open and began skimming the table of contents. He’d been looking for information on a specific event from a statement for  _ weeks _ now, and every book from the library had yielded limited results, so he’s taken to simply checking out dozens of them at a time and giving them a cursory glance before accepting or rejecting them.

Perhaps he should have noticed the difference: the leather beneath his fingertips, smooth and satiny, like the soft inner skin of a forearm or the back of a knee and just as warm. Perhaps he should have noticed the way his eyes caught on the table of contents, on the words  _ touch _ and  _ hands _ and  _ warmth _ and  _ body _ like thorns on skin, should have noticed when he flipped to the next page and devoured it, and then the next. Perhaps he should have noticed when his tea slipped free from his hand, hitting the floor beside him and shattering in a cacophony of ceramic shards against stone.

He turns another page, and continues to read.

He’s hardly aware of his surroundings, too caught up in the book in front of him and the heavy, weighty feel of his own body, his own flesh and blood and skin surrounding him, so he doesn’t realize that there’s someone else in his office until a firm hand comes down on his shoulder.

Jon startles back into himself, the point of contact burning as if hit with several thousand volts of electricity, and he automatically snaps the book shut, like a startled child caught reading something beyond their age level. “Yes, yes, what is it?” he says, turning in his chair and placing himself between the book and the intruder. 

Tim puts his hands up in a placating gesture and takes a small step back, and a bit of Jon’s frustration drains away at the sight. “Sorry, boss. Just had that follow-up you asked for—the Harrison case? Called your name a few times, but you didn’t respond. You seemed kinda out of it.” Tim’s mouth curves into a teasing smile. “Gotta say, you’re the only person I know who can get so engrossed in those old-timey books they have in the library. That looks like an  _ old _ one.”

Jon gives Tim a flat look, and Tim quickly says, “I’m sure it’s interesting! You know what—maybe I’ll give it a go. Why not? You’ve convinced me, boss. Just leave it on my desk when you’re done.” Tim flashes Jon a cheeky smile and sets the file of paperwork he’s holding atop Jon’s stack of library books. “You know where to find me.”

Then, he’s gone, and Jon’s left with the book.

The book, he realizes, that’s not labeled with the insignia of the Magnus Institute like the other library books. The book he’d just spent  _ half an hour reading _ , and which he can’t remember a single word of no matter how hard he thinks about it.

_ Anatomy of A Man, _ the embossed cover reads. And when Jon tentatively lifts the cover with a pencil, he catches the glint of gold and curling calligraphy that brings him back to spider’s legs and  _ knock knock _ s scrawled across picture-book pages.

_ Fuck. _

Jon tucks the book away in his desk, locks the drawer, and spends the rest of the day reading the same sentence in Tim’s file over and over again and waiting for the moment he finally succumbs to the Leitner’s effects and receives his horrible, crimson fate.

It never comes.

What comes, instead, is a tickle. Just on the inside of Jon’s wrist, irregularly, often enough that Jon takes note of it but not so often that it’s worrisome. Jon absently scratches at the tingling patch of skin and returns to his paperwork.

The workday ends, and the tickling subsides. 

Jon stays late to work, consumed both by the fear of the thing locked away in his desk and the need to remedy the lack of progress he’d made that day on his growing stack of “to record” statements. And every so often, he’ll…  _ feel _ something. A brush across the inside of his forearm, slight enough that he hardly notices it. A pressure against his entire left side, constant yet fluctuating in intensity for a period of around ten minutes before it, too, subsides, and Jon’s left wondering if he’s imagined it, or if this is somehow an effect of the Leitner.

The thought fills him with equal parts dread and confusion. So he pushes it to the back of his mind and continues to work.

The thing that finally pushes him over the edge is his hair. It’s such a silly thing, he thinks, to be so captivated by the feeling of nails dragging across his scalp or the tug of fingers at the strands of his hair. He’s always enjoyed it—working his hair with a brush and tying it into a braid or a topknot or a mess of tangled waves to later be undone. So the first  _ tug _ of Jon’s hair draws a gasp from his lips and he  _ stops, _ eyes wide-open and staring at the wall in front of him as  _ something _ tugs at his hair, a bit sharper than he normally does himself but surprisingly lovely. It goes on for several minutes—the tugging, the gentle scrape of nails against his scalp, the way the phantom fingers dip down and massage the tissue of his neck and brush gently against his temples. And it’s so  _ nice. _ Georgie had done his hair when they’d been in uni, putting it up in intricate styles and combing her fingers through it as they watched television at night, and he’d felt like a cat leaning into the touch, but it had melted his stress like butter on a stove, leaving him boneless and relaxed.

The same happens now. By the time the sensation finally retreats, Jon’s eyelids are brushing his cheekbones, and he feels the tension that’s made his muscles stiff and rigid since he first saw that golden nameplate melt away. The last thing he feels before drifting off to sleep is a gentle pressure against his eyelids, an attempt to rub the exhaustion away. Then, he’s melted into nothingness.

* * *

It keeps  _ happening _ . Over the next few days, invisible fingers and hands brush over Jon’s skin, making him shiver when a light touch ghosts across his upper lip and jump when a strong hand grips his wrist while he’s reaching for a pen. His eyes keep drifting to the locked drawer of his desk, where the gold-leather book still sits. Every time his skin prickles with an unseen touch, he thinks of the book, of the words he can’t remember reading, and wonders if  _ this is it. _

All things considered, it’s relatively benign, he thinks. 

And so he turns his attention away from the book, continues to record statements, and tries to pretend like he doesn’t enjoy the soft feeling of fingers through his hair or against the knuckles of his hands or across the sensitive skin of his palms.

It’s almost nice.

Until it isn’t.

Jon doesn’t realize it at first—that the touches are growing stronger, that every one leaves his skin a bit more tender, a bit more sensitive. He brushes his hand against his desk once, just moments after an invisible hand squeezes around his own, and almost yelps at the sharp, oversensitive twinge of his skin at the contact. It’s when the fingers against his scalp turn from gentle to electric that he finally decides that enough is enough, that he’s irrationally indulged this- this  _ whatever _ this is for long enough and that it’s time he burned the book and was done with it.

He lights the match and drops it in the wastepaper bin alongside shining leather that reflects the flames back at him, like a golden smile.

The book does not burn. 

Nor do the pages rip, nor do knives alter the surface, nor do any of the dozens of other attempts at destruction Jon tries produce any sort of damage to the book. The leather remains unmarked and unharmed, mocking him.

Jon locks the book back in his desk, weaves his hair between his fingers, and pulls hard enough to block out the fire of another’s touch with his own. 

* * *

Jon’s tucked against the corner of his couch, one hand pressing a book open flat against his knees and the other cradling a mug of chamomile tea, when he first feels the gentle brush of fingers against the skin just beneath his belly button. The touch is sudden and searing enough that Jon nearly drops his mug entirely; as it is, the bottom left corner of his book gets thoroughly stained, and with a grimace, Jon stands to begin the process of drying the paper properly so it won’t wrinkle.

Then, a hand made of live nerve endings and tingling heat wraps around his cock, and Jon stumbles against the wall as waves of overstimulation and pleasure wrack through him in equal amounts. The book slips free from his hand and flutters to the ground as he places one hand on the wall to steady himself and presses the other, tentatively, to the skin just below his belly button, to see if that same heat he can feel coiling within him lingers outside as well.

There’s nothing. Just skin, slightly warm to the touch and utterly unremarkable.

The hand around his cock shifts,  _ twists, _ and Jon’s hips buck involuntarily against the wall in a way that has him yelping in both pleasure and distress. It’s not that he hasn’t touched himself before, nor that he’s never entertained the thought of another doing so—it’s just never been like  _ this. _ Like his body is on fire, every pressure point ablaze with a sensation that’s pleasure to the point of pain, skin flayed open to lay bare sensitive nerves that sing when touched but scream all the same. 

Doing this—touching himself, working himself up, chasing pleasure to the point of release—has always been a means to an end, a way to relax or to scratch an itch or to nudge himself more firmly into sleep. He’s never felt the need to take it further, to explore such touches with a partner, because he’s interested infrequently enough to seem fickle and hates explaining the complexities of his attraction when his own hand will do just fine in the moments when he thinks he might enjoy the presence of another. 

_ His own hand _ flutters uselessly against his thigh as the invisible one on his cock tightens and begins to quicken. It’s pulling bitten-off noises from Jon’s mouth that he never thought he could make, that feel drawn from his throat by honey-tipped fingers, and a particularly skilled twist of the hand elicits a moan that he muffles quickly behind his fist. Sensitivity becomes oversensitivity becomes red-hot embers, and it’s not long at all before Jon comes, one hand gripping the wall and the other pressed tightly against his mouth to hold in his cries as the unseen hand works him through it.

And then keeps going. 

It’s too much, it’s  _ too much, _ and Jon crumples to the ground and pulls his knees tightly to his chest, like that’ll somehow stave off the white-hot grip of a hand that isn’t his as it brings him achingly slowly back to full hardness. Its rhythm stutters as it draws Jon closer, the erratic change in pace drawing a punched-out sob from Jon’s chest; he’s close again, so close, he’s almost—

The hand pauses, just for a moment, drawing a cry from Jon’s mouth against his will. Then, it’s gone, leaving Jon sprawled against the wall with forehead slick with sweat, chest and hands and thighs trembling as he struggles to remain upright and his cock painfully, achingly hard.

When Jon gives in and wraps his own hand around his cock, he almost expects it to burn him—for that white-hot pleasure-pain to remain, for flames to lick against his palm and begin once again to consume him whole. But his skin is still just skin. Af if nothing had ever happened.

The orgasm he gives himself, guided by his own hand, is nothing close to his first. And as he stands on shaking legs and stumbles to his bedroom, where he can collapse fully into sleep, he wishes so desperately that he wasn’t disappointed by it.

* * *

It’s the next day, just after lunch, when things finally slot into place.

Jon’s recording a statement when two sharp knocks sound on his office door. Before Jon can open his mouth to speak, the door swings open and Tim steps into his office, file folder in hand. 

“Tim,” Jon says, his voice tight and clipped. “I’m fairly certain the point of  _ knocking _ is to wait for permission to enter.”

He doesn’t mean for it to sound so snappish, but he’s been on edge  _ all day. _ His entire body has felt flushed and overheated ever since the…  _ events _ of the previous night, and every invisible touch that’s come since brings with it a shock of pleasure that nearly has Jon  _ whimpering. _ Every sensation is a livewire across his body, every touch laced with flame. Even now, he finds his hands shaking ever so slightly as he mindlessly organizes the papers sitting on his desk, clinging tightly to an air of professionalism.

Tim gives him a look and says, “Right. Sorry.” He takes a step forward and extends the file folder toward Jon. “Just finished the follow-up on that bug case you asked for.  _ Definitely _ a weird one—we couldn’t find any record of an exterminator coming to the house, but the neighbors swear they saw a van parked out front for some company— _ Bugs Bee Gone _ , I think? Anyway, the entire place is burned to the ground now, so whether or not there was really a colony of singing bees living in the walls is a question that’ll have to remain unanswered.”

Jon forces his voice into something neutral when he says, “Thank you, Tim,” and takes the file folder from him. His hands only shake a little. Small victories, he supposes.

“All in a day’s work!” Tim says cheerily. And claps his hands together.

Burning heat sears through Jon’s hands, and he drops the file folder reflexively in an attempt to reduce the friction against his palms, to ease the oversensitivity turning his skin into pins and needles of electricity. As if from a distance, Jon hears Tim say, “Jon? Uh, is everything all right?” 

Jon can’t stop staring at Tim’s hands.

“Jon?” Tim repeats, taking a few steps closer until he’s close enough to touch. And Jon doesn’t know what compels him to do it—maybe it’s the way his hands are still tingling with warmth, or the way that Tim’s standing so close to him, or something else entirely—but the next thing he knows he’s reaching forward and grasping one of Tim’s hands in his own.

A punched-out gasp escapes Jon before he can help it, and he grips Tim’s hand so hard he fears it might bruise. The sensation is not unlike that of sticking one’s hands in flickering flames, or against a hot stovetop, or inside a pot of boiling water, other than the fact that rather than instinctively flinching away from the sensation, Jon finds himself drawing closer, chasing the burning heat like he might die without it. When Tim jerks his hand back, the sudden lack of warmth is enough to draw a  _ whine _ from Jon’s throat, like some sort of kicked puppy. A wave of embarrassment washes over Jon, sharp and cloying, and he crosses his arms and tucks his hands underneath them to hide the way that they shake.

“What?” Tim says, his voice too-high and strangely breathless. His eyes are flicking back and forth between Jon and his own hands, like he can’t decide which deserves his attention more. His face is flushed a deep crimson, and Jon swears he can see Tim’s hands shaking too. “What the  _ hell? _ ”

“I—” Jon bites back a million excuses and simply says, “I apologize, I- that was unprofessional. Thank you for the file, Tim. You- you may go.”

Tim shakes his head firmly. “No, hold on.” He takes a step closer; Jon can feel his proximity acutely, a tingling across his skin that draws an involuntary shiver out of him. “Something’s  _ wrong _ here.”

Jon’s eyes flit, unwillingly, to the drawer with the book, then back to Tim. “I- I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“Right,” Tim says, his eyes intense as they focus on Jon. “So it’s just a happy coincidence then that touching you makes me feel the same spooky shit I’ve been dealing with all week?”

Jon blinks at Tim. “ _ What? _ ”

Tim sighs sharply and runs a hand through his hair. A phantom touch scurries across Jon’s scalp in tandem with the motion, and Jon’s sharp intake of breath must be audible because Tim’s hand freezes mid-motion and he  _ stares _ at Jon.

“You,” he says haltingly. “You feel it too? Like- like something’s touching you, but there’s nothing there? And it- it’s gotten  _ worse, _ like you’re just on  _ edge _ constantly, waiting for the next time it’ll happen, and every time is more intense, like—”

Tim pulls his hand from his hair and makes a frustrated noise. “ _ Fuck, _ like every part of me is  _ sensitive, _ Jon!”

Quietly, Jon says, “I… believe I know exactly what you mean.” He pauses, reluctance and fear making the words stick in his throat on the way out, before saying, “It is…  _ possible _ that I may have come into possession of a…  _ book. _ And that I may have read it.”

“A book,” Tim echoes, staring at Jon like he’s lost his mind. Then, his face crumples into realization-horror-panic-disbelief, and he says softly, “Oh, _ no. _ ”

Jon couldn’t agree more.

* * *

“This is ridiculous,” Tim says. But he doesn’t move away, just shifts slightly where he’s sat on the edge of Jon’s bed. “We don’t even know if it’s going to  _ work _ .”

A bit pointedly, Jon places his hand on Tim’s upper arm. The shock of contact is enough to pull a gasp from both of their mouths, and it takes a monumental physical effort to rip his hand away from Tim’s arm, like they’re two sides of a magnet drawn together by forces beyond comprehension. “It seems like the most logical conclusion,” Jon says, his voice entirely too breathy for his liking. He takes a moment to steady his breathing before continuing, “What we know so far is that any human touch one of us experiences is also felt by the other, including touches from others and touches we give ourselves. The intensity of these touches is growing the longer it’s been since I… er, since the book took effect. The book likely connects the reader with the first person who touches them after they’ve begun reading, establishing the physical connection between them. When one of us touches the other, the contact is more…  _ intense, _ in a way that makes both of us unwilling to part from the other.”

“While that textbook definition sounds pretty and all,” Tim says, “it doesn’t say  _ anything _ about whether or not extended periods of contact will help the situation or make it worse. And right now, I’m really leaning toward  _ make it worse _ . We should just destroy the book.”

“I  _ told _ you,” Jon says with mounting frustration, “it’s not the kind that can be destroyed! Believe me, I’ve  _ tried. _ Whatever this is, it- it doesn’t  _ seem _ to be deadly, but I would much rather not spend the rest of my life incapacitated every single time you feel like touching yourself.”

The first time Jon had mentioned  _ that _ particular incident, Tim had gone so red Jon thought he might be choking and had then made some joke about  _ kinky spooky books _ that had Jon sputtering. Now, Tim’s mouth slips into a cheeky grin, and he says, “You sure? I’ve been told I’m  _ quite _ skilled.”

“ _ Tim. _ ”

Tim sighs. “Fine, fine.” He pauses for a moment, his grin slipping into something more serious. Then, quietly: “You really think this will work?”

Jon opens his mouth to say,  _ Yes, Tim, as I have said dozens of times already, _ but he hesitates before the words cross his lips. He’s surprised to find that he means it when he says instead, “I don’t know. I don’t remember what I read, so I- I can’t know the full effects or intentions of the book, but… it seems the most logical conclusion.” He draws in a breath. “ _ Anatomy of A Man. _ It wants the reader to exist within the body of another, in a sense—to feel what the other person feels, to a greater and greater extent as they become more accustomed to the sensation. It stands to reason that once the reader fully learns the person they’re attached to—fully understands their… er,  _ anatomy _ —then the effects of the book will subside.” Jon’s laugh is dry and humorless. “Could be worse. Most Leitners are significantly less…  _ tame. _ ”

“Right,” Tim says, his mouth curling into a wry smile. “Tame. Suppose  _ sex _ is a bit less doom-and-gloom than, like, your eyes melting out of your skull or something.” Tim must see something written on Jon’s face, because he quickly follows up with, “I know, Jon.” He reaches a hand halfway out before hesitating just shy of Jon’s hand. “I know you don’t typically…  _ do  _ this kind of thing.”

Jon stares at Tim’s outstretched hand for a long moment before reaching forward, intentionally, and lacing his fingers with Tim’s. The heat is staggering, and it takes Jon a long moment to collect his thoughts among the waves of pleasure already radiating through him. When he finally does, all he says is, “Not typically, no. But not never.” A bit dryly, he continues, “And I certainly think this is a situation where I wouldn’t… where I wouldn’t be  _ opposed. _ ”

“Jon—”

Jon grips Tim’s hand tighter, hearing the way it makes them gasp in tandem, and says, “Tim, I am  _ saying _ yes. I would rather not defend my ability to do so.”

Tim stares at Jon, his eyes wide and glassy; the connection between them thrums with static electricity, making Jon’s heart beat hummingbird-fast in his chest. “Okay,” Tim says finally, barely more than a whisper. And he leans forward, slowly, and kisses him.

Jon’s lips come alight in a thousand sparking wires, and he pushes back into Tim’s mouth so intensely he’s sure it will bruise, releasing Tim’s hand only so that he can place both his hands on the sides of Tim’s face and feel the burning intensity radiate through his palms. Tim gasps into his mouth as Jon pushes forward until Tim’s lying flat on his back on the bed. Jon’s chest presses against Tim’s and his thigh is alongside Tim’s and his hands are on Tim’s shoulders now, keeping him upright, and the feeling of it all is so white-hot with  _ need _ that Jon thinks he might choke on it. From the way that Tim pushes into the kiss, his hips bucking upward to close the space between them and to press himself more fully against the curve of Jon’s body, Jon knows that Tim can feel it too: the way that their bodies desire to become one. The way that he  _ needs _ to know the architecture of Tim’s bones and the way every inch of his skin feels beneath Jon’s fingers or underneath Jon’s teeth as Jon moves his mouth away from Tim’s and latches onto the sensitive skin at the base of Tim’s neck, brushing his teeth there ever so gently before biting down.

Tim’s back arches, pressing them flush together, and Jon’s body sings with the contact. The moan he lets out when Tim’s hand snakes up to his hair and  _ tugs _ is really quite embarrassing, but Jon can’t find it within himself to care at the moment. Embarrassment is such a small heat compared to the flames he feels licking across Tim’s skin, lost within the white-hot press of Tim’s body against his and the little noises Tim makes as Jon leaves a series of bruising marks across the tender skin of Tim’s collarbone.

_ There’s a spot just underneath Tim’s chin that he’s missed. _ The thought comes to him unbidden, and Jon doesn’t hesitate before nipping at it in a way that has Tim squirming underneath him, his moans growing louder as Jon leaves marks on sensitive skin just underneath Tim’s chin, on the spot underneath Tim’s left ear, on the swell of Tim’s shoulder blade. It’s like he can see Tim’s body mapped out in his mind, every inch of skin cataloged and labeled for his perusal, and he  _ knows _ what bits of it have gone unexplored, which bits need to be filled in with lips and hands and burning hot touches.

“J- Jon,” Tim stutters out when Jon’s hand slips under his shirt, his fingers splayed out against the skin just above Tim’s belly button. “Fuck, hold on, let- let me—”

He fumbles at the buttons of Jon’s shirt—a pressed white button-down, the kind he wears to work—and manages to get the top two undone before Jon reaches up, pushes Tim’s hands away, and undoes the remaining buttons with crisp efficiency. It wouldn’t do to lose contact for too long, after all. There’s too much of Tim that Jon has yet to put his hands on, and he itches for it,  _ yearns _ for it with every fiber of his being. 

His hands make short work of Tim’s shirt as well, and then Tim is bare-chested beneath him on the bed and Jon’s hands are pressed flat against his shoulders and tracing lower, outlining the shape of him in burning-hot ministrations that seem both too much and not enough in equal measure. He’s almost surprised when Tim’s hands reach up to close loosely around his wrists, stopping his careful worship with a gentle urgency.

“Jon,” Tim says again, his voice cracked along the edges. “I- I need to—”

He cuts off with a frustrated noise and instead slides his hands upward, along the inside of Jon’s arms and across Jon’s shoulders and down his back. The gentle scrape of Tim’s nails against his spine sends a full-body shiver through Jon, like he’s just placed his hand on an electric fence; he wants to call it pleasure, but he also wants to call it pain, and he feels as if neither descriptor is correct. Maybe  _ want _ could be adequate, if it didn’t feel more like a  _ need _ , like a burning desire to be close that Jon feels entirely unequipped to resist. 

So he doesn’t. He allows Tim’s hands to trace the lines of his back, across bumpy vertebrae and the sensitive skin of his sides and lower, brushing against the hem of Jon’s trousers.

They are still wearing far, far too many articles of clothing. 

Tim drags Jon down into another searing kiss, his lips like molten lava against Jon’s. Jon licks into Tim’s mouth, takes Tim’s bottom lip between his and nips it gently, then harder when Tim moans into his mouth. Tim can make such pretty little noises, he thinks absently as his fingers find a small patch of skin at the nape of Tim’s neck that he has not yet mapped. He wonders what other parts of Tim’s body he can touch that will draw them out, what other sections of skin might be hyper-sensitive and wanting underneath Jon’s fingertips and tongue and teeth. 

Tim’s knee comes up between Jon’s leg, a subtle shift in position that creates a not-so-subtle pressure against Jon’s cock, and he bites out, “ _ Christ, _ Tim.”

“Sorry,” Tim says, sounding not remotely sorry. He lets his hands rest on Jon’s hips in a way that probably wouldn’t be maddening under normal circumstances but is now because Tim’s already  _ touched _ Jon’s hips, he  _ knows _ Jon’s hips, and if Tim doesn’t begin to touch Jon someplace else Jon thinks he might actually die. 

In a stroke of pettiness, Jon lets his hands go still as well, resting lightly on the sides of Tim’s cheeks, against skin that he’s long-since claimed as his. From the way that Tim begins to squirm underneath him, Jon knows that Tim’s feeling it too—the desire for  _ more, _ the flames that lick higher and hotter the longer they remain still, the ones that will subside if they part entirely but that will leave them aching and wanting for more.

“ _ Jon _ ,” Tim says, the word suspiciously close to a whine.

“Hmm?” Jon says idly.

Tim lets out a long, drawn-out groan. “You can be absolutely  _ infuriating _ sometimes. I hope you know that.”

Jon feels his lips curl into a smile. “I’ve been told, yes.” He takes pity on Tim, just for a moment, and presses a small, soft kiss to Tim’s nose, a spot not yet claimed. Tim’s breath of relief is warm against his skin as Jon pulls back ever so slightly and says, “Now, if you’re amenable to it, I would very much like it if you would remove your trousers.”

Tim groans again, even as Jon  _ knows _ more than he feels that Tim’s pulse has jumped ever so slightly, that his skin has warmed underneath Jon’s hands. “ _ How _ do you make shit like that sound so  _ hot? _ ” Tim says.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Jon says, deadpan, and with the utmost casualness, he shifts positions so that his knee is pressed firmly in between Tim’s legs.

This time, Tim’s groan is more akin to a moan. “Fine,  _ fine, _ ” he says breathlessly. “ _ Christ, _ Jon.”

Jon swallows Tim’s words with a kiss, and his hands go to the button of Tim’s trousers.

It’s no time at all before Tim is spread naked before him, terra-cotta skin on display for Jon to run his hands down and press kisses to and  _ worship _ the way a body should be.  _ For what could be more perfect than flesh and blood, a body that can just as easily feel pain as pleasure? _ a voice that is not his whispers as Jon presses open-mouth kisses to each of Tim’s nipples, dragging his teeth lightly against them as he goes and relishing in the little shiver that runs through Tim at the contact. He slowly, methodically works his way down Tim’s body, making sure that no part of Tim goes unexplored, his hands slipping underneath Tim to map out the planes of his back, learning every inch of him with touches that burn and brand. 

His nose brushes against the sharp bone of Tim’s hip, his hands skimming the inside of Tim’s thighs with a gentle reverence. He presses a single, soft kiss to the inside of Tim’s thigh before taking him in his mouth.

The punched-out noise Tim gives at that sends a shiver down Jon’s spine, accentuated by the sharp, heavy drag of Tim’s fingernails across his shoulder blades as Jon begins to move, taking more and more of Tim’s cock each time until he’s gone as far as he can without choking. He wraps his hand around the remainder of Tim’s shaft and tries to draw louder and louder noises from Tim’s mouth as he moves, pulling off to lick a long stripe along the underside of Tim’s cock before taking him into his mouth again. It’s not something he’d thought about much before—using his mouth to provide pleasure—but the desire to  _ know, _ to place his mouth on every inch of Tim’s skin and claim it for his own, is maddening. 

“ _ Fuck, _ ” Tim says, his voice raw and ragged. “Jon, I-  _ fuck, _ you’ve got to- I’m going to-  _ ah! _ ”

Jon pulls off with a wet  _ pop, _ and a few more quick strokes of his hand have Tim toppling over the edge, gasping Jon’s name like a prayer. Jon works him through it, and when Tim’s hand swats at his as pleasure turns into overstimulation, Jon takes only a moment to wipe his hand on the sheets—which he’s sure he’ll find absolutely disgusting later—before running his hands along the outside of Tim’s thighs, the curve of his arse, the backs of his knees and the rigid muscle of his calves. 

“Jon,” Tim says hoarsely. “C’mere.”

His hands pull at Jon’s upper arms, and reluctantly Jon pulls himself back up so that Tim can press a sloppy kiss to the corner of Jon’s mouth. A bit drowsily, but still intensely, Tim says, “I- I need to… can I touch you?”

Jon’s skin still itches, pins and needles aflame with the places he hasn’t been touched yet, and he’s nodding before Tim’s even finished speaking. “Yes,” he says, barely more than a whisper.

Tim’s smile is sharp. “Good,” he says, and then his hand is in between Jon’s legs and Jon loses himself in white-hot flames.

Tim’s hand is quick and skilled, pulling noises from Jon’s lips that come free entirely against his will, drawn out by nimble fingers and murmured praise. “That’s it,” Tim says, his mouth pressed against the soft skin of Jon’s shoulder; he’s got Jon’s back tucked against his chest now, the both of them propped up by the headboard and one of Tim’s hands snaking around from behind Jon to wrap around his cock. The other is tracing lines across the side of Jon’s thigh, running back and forth in a rhythm that’s out of sync with Tim’s other hand in a way that should be maddening but instead sparks something hot and longing in the pit of Jon’s stomach.

“You look so pretty like this,” Tim continues, twisting his hand in a way that makes Jon  _ moan, _ something that might be Tim’s name but that might just be nonsense. “Legs spread open, my hand on your cock. I bet you were thinking about what it would be like for  _ days, _ ever since that book made sure you felt the way I jerked myself off.” Tim rubs his thumb over the head of Jon’s cock, swiping up a bit of precome before picking up a quicker rhythm that has Jon squirming underneath his hand. “I bet this is better, though—my hand on your cock, working you up, getting to see the way that I can take you apart.” 

As if to accentuate his point, Tim gives a particularly hard pull of his hand that drags an honest-to-god  _ sob _ out of Jon, the pleasure-pain of Tim’s touch lighting his entire body aflame. “Gorgeous,” Tim whispers against his ear, pressing a soft kiss against the line of Jon’s jaw. “Every part of you is fucking  _ gorgeous, _ Jon, and it’s all  _ mine. _ ”

The word  _ mine _ shudders through Jon like an electric shock. His legs tense and his hands scrabble against Tim’s thighs as he comes with a shout, his head tilting back and coming to rest against Tim’s shoulder as Tim carries him through his orgasm, stopping only when Jon says, weakly, “Too- too much,” and swats at Tim’s hand.

There are so few places left unexplored, and Jon relishes every last one as he leans against Tim’s chest, his body boneless and warm against Tim’s. He rubs small circles into Tim’s shins and the bottoms of his feet, feeling the way that Tim relaxes into his touch and lets out a small, rumbling sigh against his back. Tim’s hands wander into his hair, against the shell of his ear, down his sides and across the backs of his thighs. Every touch is aflame with that same oversensitive pleasure, but it’s become almost second-nature by now, a learned feeling that Jon finds himself leaning into, enjoying the way it tingles across his skin.

Jon’s fingers finally brush against the last spot, the final bit of unmarked territory on the expanse of Tim’s skin: a small divot just to the left of the joint of Tim’s ankle that he touches with almost aching tenderness. He’s not sure if it’s that or the moment when Tim finally learns all of Jon’s skin—pressing a final, closed-mouth kiss against the nape of Jon’s neck—when the flames finally subside. He’s not really sure it matters at all.

He half-expects to be left with only shame or embarrassment once the effects of the Leitner have vanished, but he just feels  _ tired, _ in a bone-deep way that has him leaning more fully against Tim’s chest and failing to stifle the yawn that breaks free from his throat. Tim chuckles softly, the motion gentle against Jon’s back, and says, “Suppose you were right, then.  _ Significantly _ less doom-and-gloom than your standard Leitner.”

Jon hums and lets his eyes slip closed.

Tim hums in response. Then: “Fancy reading it again? I haven’t had an orgasm like that in  _ years _ —I could really use the pick-me-up.”

“ _ Tim _ ,” Jon says tersely—or as tersely as he can manage in his current state of boneless exhaustion.

“Yeah, yeah,” Tim says, the words swallowed by a yawn of his own. Almost like an afterthought, he says, “Shower or bed?”

Jon considers the state of their sheets, of the already-drying stickiness on his stomach. He balances that against the fatigue weighing him down and the warmth of Tim pressed against him and finds that the scales tip firmly in the realm of  _ sleep. _

“Bed,” he says, pulling at Tim’s arm until they’re lying on their sides, Jon tucked up against Tim’s chest and Tim’s arm slung over Jon’s side. Every press of Tim’s body against his as Jon drifts off to sleep is familiar, a map outlined in fresh black ink, a puzzle piece slotted into place.

A body learned, understood, known, and claimed.

**Author's Note:**

> cw:
> 
> \- dubious consent: the motivations behind the explicit sections of this fic are influenced by the Leitner, and therefore the origins of the consent given are a bit murky   
> \- non-con elements: because of the effects of the Leitner, Jon is "touched" often via his connection with Tim, including sexually at one point. Jon does not explicitly consent to being touched in this way, either non-sexually or sexually.  
> \- mild memory loss/dissociation  
> \- possessive undertones from both Jon and Tim  
> \- body objectification  
> \- brief discussion of bees
> 
> please let me know if I should warn for anything else!


End file.
